


One Call Away

by terryh_nyan



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:11:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9270482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: The triplets never did manage to film Yuuri's routine, in the end. Months later, Yuuri makes a questionable decision involving copious quantities of alcohol, crushing disappointment, and a phone call to an old friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, um.  
> I really should've been working on that Hogwarts!AU.  
> But instead.  
> Here I am.  
> ...  
> *crawls back into ice skating hell*

_I felt for sure last night_  
_That once we say goodbye_  
_No one else will know these lonely dreams_  
_No one else will know that part of me_  
_I'm still driving away  
_ _And I'm sorry every day_

 

One night, after a long day of training, Phichit Chulanont decides to turn in early. It’s usually way harder than that: his friends tend to log on SNS at the oddest of times, and there’s always someone to catch up with on the way to bed, or a juicy thread to comment on, or embarrassing photos to save before their owners realize what a bad idea it was to post them in the first place. (Leo is a good soul, but he has no grasp on Internet dynamics, and Guanghong does live several time-zones away. That can make his divine intervention a little too late, and Phichit never fails to be grateful for it.)

That night, however, he’d said, _what the hell, the world can go on without me for a few extra hours_. Celestino’s always bugging him to get a decent amount of sleep anyway. (Perks of having a Cool Coach: he has a guaranteed extra like on everything he posts. Downsides: his Cool Coach will know exactly when he posts it, and if he’s supposed to be asleep by then, he’ll Hear It in the morning before he feels the chill of the ice rink on his skin.)

Besides, he’s satisfied. Training has been harder than ever, but it’s also been paying off beautifully: every evening, Phichit will collapse on his bed with his hair still wet from the shower and each muscle in his body screaming, but with a heart so light he’ll feel like he’s floating. He can feel his dreams on the tips of his fingers, close enough to touch.

So he thought that, as a one-night-only deal, he’d give himself, the Internet, _and_ his phone a break.

He doesn’t expect his phone, of all people, to disagree with that.

Around 1AM, an insistent buzzing sound fills the room. He opens his eyes (a Pavlovian reflex to his notifications he’d rather not dwell on), groaning into his pillow as the screen lights up way too close to his face.

It’s a wonderful late-spring night, with a clear sky and the slightest hint of wind between the trees. Hotter than it has any right to be, but Phichit wouldn’t have it any other way. That kind of weather was unthinkable, back in Detroit, and as much as it had become a second home to him, he’d always missed the warmth.

Phichit doesn’t know why his mind goes to Detroit so quickly, before he can even get his eyes adjusted to the light and glance coherently at the bright screen. When he does, any residue of sleep is blown away, and he snatches up the phone before it has a chance to go quiet again.

“Hello?” he says, doing mental math. It’s well past midnight in Bangkok, which would mean it has to be around 3AM in…

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a broken sound that Phichit almost can’t decipher, not right away. “Yuuri?”

“I’m so sorry,” another sob, one that makes Phichit’s heart clench and his throat close. “Were you sleeping?”

“No, not at all,” he lies, quickly pushing the bedsheet off his legs with a kick and sitting up, elbows on his knees. The charger unplugs without a sound, falling back on the mattress. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

A quiet sniffle comes from the other end of the line, then a pause. Finally, Yuuri says, slurring the words in a familiar way: “Everything.”

_Oh_ , Phichit realizes, the proverbial lightbulb going off in his head, _he’s been drinking_.

“I keep messing up,” he sobs, raw and desperate and unlike Phichit’s ever heard him.

“Yuuri,” Phichit murmurs, as soft and comforting as he can. “Did something happen?”

There’s silence then, and rustling, and Yuuri must’ve forgotten for a second that they’re on the phone, that Phichit can’t see him nod or shake his head.

“No,” he says in the end, almost too quiet to catch. “Nothing happened. That’s,” he laughs then, bitter and broken. Phichit can feel the worry swelling in his chest; he has to fight just to keep his own voice even. “That’s just it. _Nothing_ happened.”

Maybe he should just write it off as the ramblings of a drunk friend with a sad bender. Calm him down, lull him to sleep, and confide that that’d be enough, that he’d be good as new in the morning (save for the inevitable hangover). He knows what alcohol can do to Yuuri – remembers the disastrous effects of Celestino’s Killer Eggnog. The sing-off that had ensued had been in the top ten of his videos for three years now.

Phichit knows the second he considers it, though, that he can’t do that. It’s different, this time: he can feel it in Yuuri’s tired, breathless voice. He’s been crying for a good while before he decided to pick up the phone.

“Can you explain what you mean?” he asks, conciliating.

At the other end of the line, Yuuri must’ve nodded. It’s quiet for a couple of seconds, and then, voice so low Phichit has to strain to hear it: “I came back here because I wanted to get it back. My love for skating. I left everything because of that; Celestino–sensei, Detroit, _you_ –” His voice cracks then, and he’s silent for a while. Phichit doesn’t say anything; lets him take his time, however much he needs. “I left,” Yuuri says in the end, with a finality that weighs like a death sentence. “And then nothing happened. I didn’t get it back, Phichit–kun. I didn’t.”

“Yuuri…” Phichit murmurs, Yuuri’s words heavy on his chest. “You know you don’t have to feel guilty about that. You needed a change. That’s okay, you know? That’s always been okay.”

For a long time, Yuuri doesn’t reply. The unsteady rhythm of his breathing is the only indicator that he’s still there. Phichit holds onto it like a lifeline.

“I skated for Yuko, when I came back,” he says then, breaking the silence. Phichit thinks it over, rolling the name on the tip of his tongue: Yuko. That’s the name of Yuuri’s childhood friend, isn’t it? “I thought that if I did, I’d remember how I felt back then, copying Viktor with her…” There it is again, that crack in his voice, crossing off Viktor’s name like he isn’t even worthy of pronouncing it.

Phichit isn’t good with words. He’s a good listener, though: he knows when to intervene, how to give rhythm and flow to other people’s thoughts. It still feels like he’s pushing it when he asks, carefully: “But you didn’t?”

Yuuri’s quiet again. “I don’t know,” he acknowledges. “I don’t know how I feel anymore.” His voice sounds a little steadier, and Phichit, at first, is relieved; only then does it dawn on him that Yuuri might just be too drained to keep crying. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where to go from here.”

_You could come to Bangkok._

It’s on the tip of Phichit’s tongue. Come stay with me, he wants to say, simple as that. Come back into Ciao-Ciao’s dream team; there’s no one else but him there anyway. Celestino’s getting old, and he’s been thinking of taking a break. He hasn’t taken on any new athletes since Phichit came along, which is why he could afford to follow him back to his home rink in Thailand, when Yuuri left.

They’d train together, like old times. Eat together, sleep together; dream together, just as big as before.

But Phichit knows he can’t tell him any of that. Not tonight. Not if he wants him to remember, or to answer while he’s in his right mind.

“You could go to Fukuoka, tomorrow afternoon.”

He can almost see Yuuri blink from behind his glasses; confused, wide-eyed. Head tilted imperceptibly to the side. “The airport? Why?”

“Because I’ll be there.”

There’s silence, again, but it’s different. Good different: like the moment between a present and a thank-you.

“I woke you up,” he comments, words slurred and definitely alcoholic.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“And you’re coming to see me,” Yuuri says, as if he wants to make certain they didn’t suddenly start speaking different languages. It wouldn’t be the first time that happened, either.

“Yup. I promised, didn’t I? Christmas 2013.”

“I don’t remember Christmas 2013.”

“I know.”

Phichit laughs. It’s soft and hushed; he doesn’t want to wake anyone. But Yuuri laughs right back, even if he suspects he might’ve started crying again.

“Phichit–kun,” he sniffles, “You’re too good to me.”

“I try to be,” Phichit replies. He fails to hold back a yawn, but Yuuri’s too far gone to notice.

“You’re coming to Hasetsu? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he reassures.

“Really?”

Yuuri’s voice is tipsy and wavering, but there’s unmistakable hope in it. Phichit’s so relieved he doesn’t even think about what he’ll have to tell Celestino in the morning.

“Really. I’ll text you so you remember, you sponge.”

“I didn’t drink _that_ much,” Yuuri protests.

“Oh, I believe you. I got you dancing in your underwear with one rum hot chocolate, remember?”

“No?”

“Case in point.”

There’s quizzical silence on the other end of the line, until Yuuri mutters, confusion and alcohol oozing through his words: “Was that in Christmas 2013, too?”

Phichit knows it wasn’t, but says yes anyway.

They talk some more; nonsense and banter and yawns on both ends. Alcohol makes Yuuri sappy like nothing else. Phichit decides to blame it all on that: the contented sighs, the whispered _I-missed-yous_. The occasional _Are you really coming tomorrow?_ , though, is all Yuuri, and Phichit can’t help but smother laughter into his pillow every time he says it. Every time he feels his heart open just a little bit more with the next _Yeah, I am_.

When Yuuri starts to doze off, Phichit stays on the line. He stays and listens to his breathing, low and even, like the wind rustling outside his window.

He listens until it lulls him to sleep, too.


End file.
